The Gambler
by Shelly
Summary: An agent receives some good advice, whether she wants it or not. Response to the songfic challenge on smkfanfic.


****

Title: The Gambler (February Songfic Challenge)

****

Author: Shelly

****

E-Mail: NurseZelda@aol.com 

****

Rating: PG

****

Disclaimer: "Scarecrow & Mrs. King" is the property of Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Enterprises LTD. Use of these characters is strictly for entertainment purposes. I can only dream about one day getting paid to do this. Do not redistribute without express permission from the author.

****

Summary: An agent receives some good advice, whether she wants it or not.

First Posted: 2/26/03

Timeframe: Takes place in the year 2012.

****

Feedback: Expected, please!

****

Archive: Permission granted to post at smkfanfic.net and fanfiction.net -- any others, please ask permission before posting or linking. Thanks!

****

Author's Notes and Thanks: Lyrics to "The Gambler" written by Don Schlitz and performed by Kenny Rogers. Thanks to Melinda for the suggestion! Special thanks to Fling for making sure I have my periods in the correct places. :-) For impeccable beta skills, I also thank Vikki, eman and Wendy. (A nod goes to my husband, as well! ;-) )

****

Warning: While this story does not go into detail, the death of a major character is mentioned in passing.

The Gambler

Part One

  
~~~~~

On a warm summer's evenin', on a train bound for nowhere  
I met up with the gambler. We were both too tired to sleep.  
So we took turns a-starin' out the window at the darkness.  
The boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

~~~~~

I'd blown it. I walked through the sleeping cars toward the club focused on one mission -- drowning my sorrows. 

The pathetic twist was that I hadn't even realized that the assignment was going sour. There I was -- a field agent for ten years and I still wasn't able to recognize a trap when it was about to be sprung. There had been a time . . .

No. There was no use in backtracking. Hindsight is always 20/20 -- wasn't that what they used to say before laser surgery was the norm? Sometimes the old idioms still held some truth, even if they were somewhat outdated.

I reached the club car and steered directly for the bar, noting the bartender's surprise when I asked for Maker's Mark -- the whole bottle. I guess that's something women don't usually do, but I was beyond caring about appearances. He handed me the bottle and a glass, and I made for a seat in the corner, as far away as possible from the other happy patrons. Trains were always filled with blissful families enjoying their leisurely trips from one station to the next. Personally, trains served to keep me off of planes and safely on the ground. This trip, in particular, could last years and I wouldn't care.

I don't know how much time had passed or who may have walked in or out. Although I still should have been on my guard, the bottle was now nearly as empty as my soul. The liquor that I had hoped would help me forget my troubles had only amplified the memories that haunted me.

I was about to get up and make my way back to my bed when the shrill ringing of my phone startled me. I knew who it was, and I didn't want to talk to him, but the phone was persistent, and my will was weak. I pulled the small electronic leash out of my pants pocket and flipped it open.

"Yeah." I knew I sounded surly. I didn't care.

"I heard about what happened." The words, spoken by any other individual, would have seemed patronizing. Somehow, though, coming from Michael, they were everything but.

"Whatever." I refused to be soothed by the man who, a year ago had been assigned, against my will, to be my partner. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" I could hear the concern in his words but wanted nothing to do with it.

"Read the report in the morning. That's all you need to know." There was no immediate reply, and I felt a small pang of regret for being so rude. Michael, for all his faults, was only trying to help. The problem was, and this was a big problem, that I had specifically taken this assignment to get away from him -- to clear my head and sort some things out. Little had I known that my decision on going it alone, and the problems that it caused, would come close to ending my field career. Hindsight, again.

"Call me if you need me." I could barely hear his words, but I could tell that I had hurt his feelings. There was a click, and then the phone went dead. I wasn't sure at first if I'd lost the signal or if he'd severed the connection. A quick check of the phone's display confirmed my suspicions. He'd given up on me.

Good.

With a deep sigh, I shoved the phone back into my pocket and leaned against the cushioned seat. The whisky buzz was threatening to wear off, thanks to the interruption, and a headache was beginning to take its place. It was then that he spoke.

~~~~~

He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces.  
Knowin' what the cards were by the way they held their eyes.  
So if you don't mind me sayin', I can see you're out of aces,  
For a taste of your whiskey, I'll give you some advice."

~~~~~

"Bad day?"

I jumped. I know I shouldn't have, but I did. An agent is supposed to be intimately aware of her surroundings. The alcohol-induced haze I was floating in, and the pool of self-pity I seemed to be wading through, was enough to blind even the staunchest of agents. 

Somehow, a man had worked his way across the room and had seated himself directly behind me. I turned to give him a look, one that I hoped would convey my desire to be left alone, but was instantly captivated by his appearance.

"I suppose," was the best retort I could muster.

He was an older man, probably in his 60's. His light brown hair was starting to gray at the temples and the roots, and his mustache and beard, both immaculately trimmed, were sprinkled with gray as well. It was the eyes, though, that gave me pause. They were the most beautiful shade of hazel I had ever seen and were highlighted by a playful twinkle. His warm smile caused the wrinkles about his eyes to intensify, and I found my icy resolve melting.

"It looks that way." He stood and walked around to join me at my table. He was dressed in blue jeans, a light blue, button-down shirt, and leather boots with a belt to match. What struck me as most attractive, however, besides his eyes, was the leather duster jacket he was wearing over the entire ensemble. If we hadn't been on a train from Chicago to D.C., I would have sworn that we were in Arizona.

Shifting his jacket to the side, he sat down. "Look. I know you think you don't want to talk, but you look like you need to." He clasped his hands in front of him, resting them on the table.

"You think so?" Despite his appearance and the way he seemed to exude a grandfather-like quality of trust, his impertinence was irritating.

"I've made a life out of reading people's faces," he replied. "Trust me."

Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe I needed a distraction. I can't be sure what it was that made me lower my defenses. "How about I just humor you?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Either way works with me, as long as you listen."

"I suppose I can do that much," I agreed.

He nodded his head toward the bottle to my left. "You don't need that," he chastised as he reached for the remainder of the amber liquid. "I'll just finish this up for you, and we'll get started."   


~~~~~

So I handed him my bottle, and he drank down my last swallow.  
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.  
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.  
He said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it right.

~~~~~

He tipped the bottle back and drank down the last swallow before I could say a word. Pausing, he savored the flavor of the whiskey, his eyes closed as if he were remembering an old friend. Then, he opened his eyes and gently placed the bottle on the table to his right. 

Winking, he reached inside his coat. My radar went off and I flinched, expecting him to draw out a handgun and put an end to my miserable day. Instead, he drew out a cigar -- Cuban by the markings on the wrapper -- and rolled it between his fingertips.

"Got a light?"

"I don't smoke," I replied, chastising myself for being so foolish and trusting when there was still the remote possibility that Davis' men were looking for me.

"I didn't ask you if you smoked. I asked for a light." 

He had a point. I sighed, trying to keep the annoyance I felt at being bested in a game of wits from boiling over, and reached toward my handbag. Without taking my eyes off him, I lifted the flap over the pocket on the front of the bag and pulled out my emergency lighter. He grinned as I slid the lighter to him over the table.

He took his time lighting the cigar, savoring it just as much as he had the whiskey. Finally, he exhaled a cloud of smoke, handed me my lighter and leaned back in his chair.

"If Amanda knew I was doing this," he waved the cigar in the air, "she'd have my neck."

"Wife?" I asked, voicing the obvious.

His eyes darkened, but he held his posture. "Used to be." The cigar found its way back to his lips, and he leaned forward, clenching it between his teeth. I could tell he was about to get serious when the twinkle left his eye.

"I know who you are and what you do," he whispered. 

His voice was like gravel, and I felt a chill run up my spine. Who the hell was this man? "Who is it that you think I am?"

"Your name is Erin Lear. You're thirty-five years old and have been working for the Agency for ten years. Your partner is Michael Reed and, for some odd reason, he's not here with you right now -- at your request."

With every word, my mouth dropped a little more. The enjoyment he was having at my expense was obvious. As shocked as I was, he seemed equally amused.

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" I finally asked. The steely edge I added to my tone of voice had taken years to perfect, but he seemed unimpressed.

"Relax," he said, shaking his head. He took another drag off the cigar and blew a smoke ring into the air, watching it as it slowly drifted toward the ceiling. "For now, let's just say I'm here at the request of a friend who knows you well."

"Is that so?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest and eyed him up and down.

"Yes, that's so." He pointed the cigar at me as his face lost all expression. "Apparently, you're playing the game just like I used to. I was sent here to give you some advice. You can take it, or you can leave it. That's your choice. But, I made a promise to a dear old friend that I'd at least talk to you. So, you're going to sit here and listen."

How could I refuse?

Part Two

~~~~~

You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em  
Know when to walk away, know when to run.  
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.  
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.

  
Now every gambler knows the secret to survivin'  
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowin' what to keep.  
'Cause every hand's a winner and every hand's a loser  
And the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep."  
~~~~~

"Well?" I asked. He was watching me, which was disquieting. It was as if he were waiting for me to do something.  


"You're too impatient." He looked around he room, then leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and taking another drag on his cigar. "That's a lesson you need to learn, and quick."

"Is this what you're going to do? Run down a list of all of my faults?" Despite his calming presence, my temper was beginning to get the better of me. "If I wanted -- or needed -- that, I know several people back home who would be delighted to do it for you. I could have saved you the trip."

"Not faults," he replied, appearing unaffected by my scathing remarks. "I'm here to save you from yourself. Now, are you going to listen or keep interrupting?" He waited for me to indicate that I was going to shut up, then continued.

"I know I'm not telling you anything you don't already know," he said, his eyes darting from me to the cigar, then around the room and back again. "In this profession, you have to work with the hand you're dealt. Every hand is a winner," he stared at me, unblinking, as he leaned forward, punctuating the seriousness of his words with the cigar, "and every hand is a loser. It all depends on how you play the cards -- its' all up to you. Right now, you have an ace up your sleeve, and you don't even know it."

At my quizzical expression, he seemed to relax as he settled back to explain. "When I was young -- your age, I guess -- I was a loner. I worked for the rush. The more dangerous the assignment, the better the rush. See, when I was a rookie in the field, I had a partner. He was a good man -- the best." His eyes misted, but he continued. "He took a bullet for me."

I took in a sharp breath, and he focused on me. "I know what it's like to feel responsible for the loss of another's life, Erin. I've been there, and I'm telling you that there is a silver lining. You just have to take the hand you've been dealt and turn it into a winner."

He was starting to get to me, and I wondered how he knew so much about me. I opened my mouth to ask, but he raised a hand and went on. "I was dealt such a hand, after my partner was killed, but I was too blind to see it at first. It took some nudging by people who cared about me to make me see it. Once I saw it, I took hold with both hands, and we were able to make the best of it -- for a while."

"What do you mean?" The vagueness in his story was starting to confuse me, and I wanted to be able to understand. 

"I was given a new partner, very much like you were assigned to work with Michael. Lord, she was thorn in my side." He smiled at the memory. "After a time, I accepted that she was meant to be with me, for however long we were allowed, and I went along for the ride."

"Your partner?"

He nodded. "And my wife."

"What happened?"

"She was killed in the line of duty. I wasn't there when it happened and I couldn't forgive myself. It was like history was repeating itself -- only worse. That winning hand I had been dealt was a loser after all." He took a deep shuddering breath and looked directly into my eyes. "You know what I mean?"

I nodded, his words ringing too true and close to home for my taste. "You should have held back," I said. "You shouldn't have let her in."

"No!" I jumped as he slapped his hand down on the table. The remaining bar patrons stopped what they were doing and looked at us. He smiled at them and nodded until they went back to their business. Then, he lowered his voice and hissed, "That's not what I'm saying at all."

"Then what?"

"If there was one thing that Amanda taught me, it was that life was worth living. You should take the good things that life gives you and enjoy them while you can, because you never know when the rug is going to be pulled out from under you."

"What did you do when she died?" I found myself leaning forward, resting my chin on my hands and I realized that, in spite of my earlier intentions of simply humoring this man, he was steadily drawing me in -- making me care.

"The same thing you're doing now. I pushed away all the people who cared about me. I signed up for the risky assignments. Basically, I was trying to join her. I don't know what it was that changed my heart, but I came to my senses after a while and here I am -- giving you advice to keep you from making the same mistakes." He gave a sardonic snort and chuckled. "Ironic, huh?"

"I don't understand." However, I *did* understand. I had seen my friend and partner, Alexandria, gunned down in front of me. That had been two years ago, and I still wasn't over it. Michael had been assigned to me a year later, the first partner I'd been assigned since the incident, but I wasn't giving him a chance.

"Michael," he said. "He cares about you."

I felt the heat as my cheeks flushed. There was no use denying that I found Michael attractive. "That's why I need to get away from him."

"So you can lose the one good thing you might ever have?" The man clicked his tongue and sadly shook his head. "If Amanda were here, she'd tell you to go for it."

I chuckled at the ease in which he spoke about his former wife. "And what do you say?" 

"It took some time, but I learned a long time ago that it was no use disagreeing with Amanda."

I laughed with him and, oddly, felt better than I had in months. I wasn't the only one in the world who had suffered such a loss, and it was a relief to know that it was possible to come out on the other side in one piece.

We sat in silence for a while. He worked on his cigar, and I chewed on his words. While we sat, I studied him, trying to figure out who this man was and why he had been sent to me. Finally, I could take the curiosity no longer.

"So," I said, and he looked up at me. "Now can you tell me who you are and who sent you?"

"You were a good listener." He stood, stretching his long legs. "I suppose I can at least leave you with that, seeing as you'll figure it out when you get back to D.C., anyway."

Again, I furrowed my brow, trying to figure out what he meant.

"You'll know it when you see it," he explained, a smile lighting his eyes once more. He extended a hand, which I grasped. "Lee Stetson, at your service," he drawled as he dipped low to place a kiss on the back of my hand. "Though some still call me Scarecrow. Section Chief Desmond asked me to talk to you."

  
~~~~~

So when he finished speakin', he turned back toward the window,  
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.  
And somewhere in the darkness, the gambler he broke even.  
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

~~~~~  
  
He released my hand and crushed out the small remains of his cigar in the ashtray on the table. Before I could say another word, he turned and walked away.

Lee Stetson. How could I have *not* recognized him? His photo -- specifically, a photo of him and Amanda King -- was in Ms. Desmond's office. To top that off, Scarecrow and his partner, Mrs. King, were legends. I sat at the table, my mouth agape. *The* Scarecrow had been asked to talk to me about my actions and the way I was living my life.

I reached for my cell phone, ready to hit Michael's number on the speed dial. It was definitely time for a change, and I intended to start right away. It was time to take the good thing that life had given me and enjoy it while I could. 

Amanda had been a very wise woman.

~~The End~~   



End file.
